‘The women are going to get this done’: How bipartisanship saved disability services

It was the first time I had put on pumps in almost ten years. You see, when my twins turned three, I had to say goodbye to my corporate job, to a career I had put so much of myself into. My medically fragile and behaviorally complex son needed me at home. 

So, in February, a decade after I traded those pumps and suits for syringes and feeding tubes, I reached back to the dark recesses of my closet and my past life. I found those uncomfortable high heels, and I took out my messy bun; it was time to bring back that confidence I had lost many hospital hallways ago and bring it to our Arizona legislature. Something was swirling there and my son needed me in a very new way. 

When I first heard that the majority party in our state legislature was questioning the validity of the support Arizona had been providing its disabled population, I honestly thought it was just a miscommunication. I thought certainly we could clear things up with facts. My son had been sicker than normal, so I couldn’t give much, but in the long run, the time I could offer would be worth it. 

What I actually found in those early weeks trying to reach my Republican legislators was slammed doors. 

That is, until my 7th grade daughter, Grace, decided she had a part to play for her twin brother, too. I didn’t know she had emailed our District 13 representative, Julie Willoughby, to ask for a meeting, and when I found out, I definitely didn’t expect a response. Grace had asked Rep. Willoughby, if it wasn’t too much trouble, could her “mommy, her nana, and her brother in a wheelchair” come, too? 

And Willoughby opened her door. 

In March, I pulled out those pumps again and loaded up the wheelchair van for another family trip to the Capitol. 

Both of my children have something to say, though only one of them can use words. Caleb’s language exists in subtlety — gestures, squeals, facial expressions, even self-injury. We watch him constantly, afraid to miss a need, a want, a pain, or a warning sign. But Grace? Grace has no shortage of words. For thirteen years, she’s believed that she can feel what her brother wants to say. So, I let her take the lead that day. We all sat in a big room on the third floor of the House of Representatives, and I asked if she could run the meeting. It was hers, after all. 

With a nod of approval from Willoughby, Grace began. She asked about Willoughby’s job as a trauma nurse (news to me!), about her role as majority whip (and yes, I, too, was curious whether whips were involved), and, eventually, about how committee chairmen are chosen. 

Her line of questioning had purpose — she’d been at a House Appropriations Committee meeting in February and had not been impressed. She’d seen two men — Chairman David Livingston and Vice Chairman Matt Gress — wield power with little compassion or understanding, talking down to constituents who were clearly fearful and desperate. To her seventh-grade mind, the House of Representatives was as much hers as anyone’s. She saw injustice, and she brought her questions. 

And Willoughby? She met Grace’s sincerity with grace of her own. She took her seriously. She answered every question with dignity and depth. I sat back, overwhelmed. Watching my daughter volley with a legislator with respect and poise — and watching that legislator return it in kind — was almost too much. I wasn’t just proud of Grace, I was proud of Willoughby. 

Then it was my turn. And I had two choices: fall into the beauty of what had just happened and try to be Willoughby’s new bestie, or stand up and ask the hard questions. My natural tendency — what had pulled me away from journalism years ago — was to choose the former. I like people. I want to be liked. But, by the grace of God, I found a middle. I chose honesty with empathy. 

I asked what we could do to bridge the divide. I answered Willoughby’s questions with facts. I gently challenged misinformation. I offered insight into the painful, often overwhelming life of a family raising a medically complex child. And she listened. Not defensively. Not dismissively. With curiosity and compassion. We ended that day with an invitation for Grace and her friends to return for a field trip. I sent a follow-up email the next day, and then… I waited. 

At the same time, I had been given the opportunity to build some relationships with Democratic representatives who were strongly supporting clean funding for the disability community. I was invited to a roundtable with Gov. Katie Hobbs and several other Democrats, and I brought Caleb and Grace (and Caleb’s nurse) along with me. 

In that room, Grace felt an overwhelming calling to share her heart, and so she read a speech she had written. She spoke of utopian ideals that we still should strive for — coming together, checking our egos, apologizing! While genuinely thanking them, she also called out the Democrats for not showing up to be our voice where we were stifled and she told them there is no champion and no enemy in this story. We all needed each other. 

That night, one Democratic representative latched onto those words from my newly minted teenager. Rep. Nancy Gutierrez promised Grace she heard her, and she would do her best to reach across the aisle. 

Then came the blow. 

Two weeks after our first meeting with Willoughby, Livingston dropped a cruel bill — stripping expert oversight, granting full legislative control over crucial Medicaid waiver amendments and slowly dismantling the Parents as Paid Caregivers program that is a lifeline in the massive caregiver shortage this community is facing. It felt like a deliberate dismantling of hope. 

But Willoughby opened her door again. She valued my willingness to compromise and my tendency toward fact over emotion. When we sat down, she came ready to listen. She didn’t waver in her support for her party, but she had questions. She wanted to understand. She debated respectfully. She was willing to learn. 

Over the next several days, I was invited into other meetings — never bipartisan, but I had a strong sense that there was hope for a bridge, and that maybe I could play a part in closing the divide. 

Shortly after, Willoughby authored an amendment that proved she was listening. Thoughtful and grounded in reality, it was a meaningful attempt to protect our families while addressing her party’s concerns. 

The night before the committee meeting, Willoughby realized she needed bipartisan support — and that’s when I reached out to Gutierrez. Her promise to my daughter gave me hope that she, too, could see the value in effective and safe compromise that could lead to a bridge in this ever widening gap. 

Gutierrez hadn’t helped write the amendment, but when she read it, she was willing to support it. This was her moment to be our voice, and she was prepared to do it — even though it wasn’t perfect. 

But then, in a move that was stunning and devastating, Livingston and Gress stacked the committee with three new Republicans minutes before the vote — just to ensure that the amendment would fail. 

And it did. 

But Willoughby didn’t back down. When she spoke that day, she made it clear: this was her hill. One of life and dignity. And she was willing to die on it. 

Let that sink in. Why should a bipartisan solution ever be a hill to die on? 

The following week, when another cruel amendment failed in the House, something shifted. That night, both Willoughby and Gutierrez reached out to me separately to say they’d finally connected. My heart exploded, hope finally felt realistic. 

I turned to Grace and said, “They met.” She screamed, “THE WOMEN ARE GOING TO GET THIS DONE!” A few hours later, she was proven right. They had come together — at last. Not in defiance of their roles, but with mutual respect and a shared commitment to doing what was right. 

Eventually, this bipartisan amendment passed. The names on it weren’t Willoughby’s or Gutierrez’s because, unsurprisingly, these women chose not to seek credit. 

I wasn’t at the Capitol when the bill passed, but I know in my heart what happened in that room — just like what happened for all of us watching from home. Families who had been holding their breath for months, marching and meeting and begging for help, finally exhaled. 

So, I get to put on those scuffed-up pumps one more time to celebrate a door opened and hands reaching across the aisle to recognize the disability community as a valued part of this state’s priorities. 

I will walk my children through those halls one more time and I’ll remind them: This place belongs to you, too. Look at what can be done when you don’t give up on the value of your voices. Your life is worth fighting for, and a seventh-grade girl has the power to remind all of us what courage looks like. 

Because in a world so quick to divide, three ladies — one red, one blue, and one still believing in the power of shades of purple — chose to meet in the middle. And that is where hope begins.